Disclaimer: Even Anderson would be able to deduce that I don't own Sherlock BBC.

A/N This is the chapter that was never planned. "The Colour of Ash" was meant to be a oneshot. Nevertheless, for better or for worse, here is the second part. Betaed by the brilliant Sylvaine.

John Watson is limping again. It's silly and he knows it, his leg is perfectly fine after all. Yet the pain is real enough, a dull, familiar ache that John's therapist wasn't able to cure in five weeks and Sherlock cured in under five hours. At the time, John thought it was gone for good but it returned the day they met Moriarty. The day John found out he might never speak to Sherlock again.

John drags himself into the kitchen, sets some water to boil. When he opens the cabinet he curses. They are out of tea. He grabs the jar of coffee instead. John never liked coffee. It's too bitter, but for now it will have to do.

They covered coma, briefly, at medical school so John knows several things about it. Like the fact that it can be caused by damage to the reticular activating system – the part of the brain that controls sleep patterns. The impact of a small, not even particularly heavy object can be all it takes to sedate you for years. For Sherlock, a piece of shrapnel was enough.

For a change, the cups reek of cleanliness. No need to wash out the remnants of chemicals or remove vestiges of decomposing flesh. John takes a mug and rinses it anyway. Just out of habit.

He tries to ignore the nagging, disturbing knowledge that the deepest level of true coma usually lasts from two to four weeks. It's been 22 days. If Sherlock doesn't regain consciousness by the end of the month, the likelihood of him ever doing so will decrease by a vast amount.

John mixes the instant coffee with a bit of milk and vast quantities of sugar. Then he stands there listening to the relentless ticking of the clock, waiting for what seems like hours for the water to boil.

Even if Sherlock does wake up, John muses for what must be the hundredth time today, it is possible and entirely plausible that he will descend into a continuous vegetative state. He will be merely partially aware of his surroundings and, to a small extent, respond to outside stimulation. This also means that he won't be able to move, to speak, to think ever again.

The kettle is infuriatingly silent. John realizes he's forgotten to switch on the stove. Tired of waiting, he simply pours the water into the mug. It doesn't matter. Coffee is disgusting whatever he does to it. Might as well take it cold.

John almost gags when he tastes it, but forces it down regardless. The caffeine will keep him awake for a little while and reality, bleak as it may be, is better than sleep. There is no solace in dreams and John hates waking up from nightmare after nightmare, thinking he's heard the sound of Sherlock's violin.

He sets the mug down on the kitchen counter and checks his watch. It's almost three in the morning, too late to go to the hospital for a bedside visit. John hesitates for a moment, then shrugs on his jacket, picks up his cane and heads outside anyway, wincing with every step. The door creaks shut behind him.

The nurse on duty at the hospital promptly refuses to let John see Sherlock. The first thing she does is ask whether John is family and on finding out he isn't she launches into a tedious monologue about ward policy, visiting hours and other manifestations of hospital bureaucracy. John sighs. He's in no mood to argue. And as the nurse drones on and on he thinks that if Sherlock were here they'd be inside the ward in a matter of seconds. First Sherlock would march over to the front desk and demand entry, flashing Lestrade's credentials at her. If she still held firm the detective would convince her with his clever arguing, confuse the poor woman until she was too dazed to refuse. Or if he were in a bad mood that day, Sherlock might blackmail her, confront her with her secrets, deduce every shred of embarrassing, incriminating, personal information and drag it out into the open until she had no choice but to cooperate. Or Sherlock would simply sneak in through a back door.

Then again, if Sherlock were here, John wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place.

It's ridiculous, the way John misses him. He's lost friends before, close friends, and it was hell each time. Yet somehow, death after death, John managed to cling on to his sanity. Now he's going mad. He must be. It's insane to miss anyone this much.

It takes him a while to notice that the nurse has stopped speaking. Instead she's staring at him intently, studying his expression. Her face is drenched in pity.

John turns around and walks to the front door.

"Wait!"

For a moment she fidgets, torn by indecision. Then she sighs and motions for John to follow her.

"Come on then," she mutters as she leads him to the elevator. "I might get into trouble for allowing this if the management finds out but...well."

"Thank you," John says. "Thank you so much."

It's a private ward of course, all expenses paid, courtesy of Mycroft. John enters and flicks on the light. It's too shrill, it illuminates too much of the room, which is too tidy and much too quiet. John can't get used to it, even after three weeks. He closes the door, crosses to the bed and sits down on the edge.

Sherlock's hands are burning. They are ablaze with cold – a result of poor circulation no doubt, plus the fact that Sherlock hasn't moved in weeks. His fingers are freezing, almost painful to the touch.

John doesn't let go.

Suddenly he realizes that he's terribly tired. The coffee isn't working.

He considers switching on some music to keep himself awake but decides against it. John doesn't think he can take music right now. Two weeks ago he bought Sherlock a small stereo and a CD of famous violin pieces. He read online that one should always assume a comatose person can hear what is going on, even if they don't respond to sound. Apparently, it also helps to hear familiar voices. Raises awareness, increases the chances of recovery.

John clears his throat.

"Lestrade called today, Sherlock," he says "Asked me how you were coming along. They've got a new case, something about a dead woman and a speckled band. One of those unusual murders. Should be right up your street. Scotland Yard is stumped as usual, of course".

Sherlock, of course, doesn't respond and John can't help but wonder if Sherlock will remain unchanged if, no – John corrects himself furiously – when he wakes up. He tries to feel comforted by the knowledge that upon emerging from a comatose state some people fully regain their former mental capabilities.

As he sits there, wiling away the hours until dawn, he tries not to feel nauseated by the knowledge that some people do not.

Sherlock is playing his violin when John comes home – a fast paced, somewhat eerie piece. John can't remember what it's called.

"You're late", Sherlock says. His tone is casual, matter-of-fact. "You were supposed to be here two hours ago".

He stops playing, puts the instrument onto the coffee table, but the music still continues. It's lively, cheerful even, but oddly morbid at the same time. John doesn't like it. It sends chills down his spine.

Sherlock's eyes narrow, like they always do when he's thinking hard. "Why are you late?"

John grins, despite the ghastly tune in the background. "You tell me".

Sherlock looks at him, registers every detail of his appearance and John waits for the deduction with bated breath. He loves listening to his friend pull information seemingly out of thin air, then explain his brilliant thought process as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. John stands there, smiling and waiting for Sherlock to tell him that he returned from work at six instead of at four because Sarah stayed home sick today, and John visited her. In a moment Sherlock will state that John brought her flowers, tulips to be precise, that there are still pollen stains on his sweater.

But Sherlock doesn't tell him anything of the sort.

"Your hair", he mutters instead. "It's dry"

"Oh," John says, taken aback. "Is it? I-" Sherlock cuts him off.

"No, John. Don't say anything. Deduction is not an art, it's a science and there's plenty of data. Your hair is dry, why is it dry? It's raining outside". Sherlock gets up from the sofa and the carpet crunches under his feet. John glances at the floor and notes that it's covered by a thin sheet of ice. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice though. He's pacing around the room, in time to the music. His words are restless, frantic. "You're home at six instead of four because you left work later today. Is that right? It must be. Why, though, why? I don't know. There's a light shining straight into my eyes, John, I can't think. You always walk home from the clinic, regardless of the weather conditions. Your hair should have gotten wet, why isn't it? Why not today?" He lapses into a tense silence that seems to last and last.

Finally, John speaks. "I took a cab back home from Sarah's house, Sherlock," he says as softly as he can. "I left the clinic at four, as usual".

The ice shatters, cuts into the skin of Sherlock's bare feet. Blood trickles across the floorboards.

"Impossible", Sherlock snarls and it's nearly graceful, the way their lives disintegrate. Cracks work their way up the walls and John watches as Sherlock loses control ever so slowly, his eyes gradually unfocusing, every breath heavier than the last. "I can't be wrong!" he gasps. "I am never wrong! You're late because of...because-"

Ink. All of a sudden it's everywhere, seeping out from under the peeling wallpaper, forming black puddles on the ice. It oozes down the bookshelf, stains the surface of the table. John vaguely wonders where it came from. Then he sees the look on Sherlock's face and realization hits him like a bullet to the stomach. John walks across the room, picks up the newspaper, scans the blank pages. He forces himself to be calm, moves through the flat, opens drawers, examines case file after case file. Empty pages stare back at him. John drops them onto the ground. They flutter and fall down, down, down.

With a shudder, John re-enters the sitting room and the smiley face on the wall grins wider. Sherlock is pacing across a layer of ink, blood and broken ice and John can't do anything except watch his best friend panic, speed up until he's running in circles, round and round and round and round and -

"Sherlock!" John yells and the detective stops abruptly in the middle of the room. Minutes trickle by and the music, that uncanny, perky music, doesn't have the decency to stop. Sherlock stands there, perfectly still, and when at long last he speaks his voice is the sound of melting glass. "I can't do it", he murmurs as the floor gives way and the house collapses around them and John

wakes up shaking and gasping for air...

...to find that the song from his nightmare is still playing. John glances at the stereo in confusion. Sure enough, the disk of famous violin pieces he bought is spinning away merrily in the CD drive. Strange. John is sure he hadn't switched the stereo on before he fell asleep and for a fleeting, insane moment he thinks that Sherlock must be awake, yet his friend lies as silent and motionless as ever.

"It's called 'The Danse Macabre', Johnny-boy," chirps an all too familiar voice. "It's one of my favourites! Gorgeous, isn't it?"

John gets to his feet and faces the man leaning casually against the door.

"Hi there," trills Jim Moriarty.

A/N Yes, I really like cliffhangers. I also happen to really, really like reviews...